


a chill runs through your veins

by ladystark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 09:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1221106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladystark/pseuds/ladystark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And Lady died. We found her in the snow one morning - two parts of her. And Sansa cried, because she lost her Lady."</p>
<p>The words Arya says next are perhaps the second most painful Margaery has ever heard.</p>
<p>Arya’s voice is sad and distant when she speaks, as if to match her eyes. "And now you've lost yours."</p>
            </blockquote>





	a chill runs through your veins

"I promise, my family adores you. Everyone does."

Margaery smiles at that, turning to Sansa. Her wife of six months now had always had a habit of saying such lovely things. When they had been young girls, teenagers, Sansa would always blush furiously whenever she said something like it. Now, she said these things every single day, and smiled instead of blushing. Margaery had _always_ smiled back, because Sansa had always just been so lovely about everything. Back when they were teenagers, now, and every moment in between.

"That was before I intruded on a Stark family Christmas, my love."

Margaery wasn’t used to being worried, and it was such an uncommon feeling for her. But after Sansa’s parents had officially invited Margaery to the annual Stark family Christmas, a small part of Margaery _had_ been worried something would go terribly wrong. She’d met Sansa’s family multiple before, of course, and she’d never had any problems with them, but this was a completely different scenario. At least, that’s what she had told her wife.

Usually, Margaery did not like anybody to see her anything other than perfect, well put-together. But Sansa was not like everyone else – she was smart and beautiful, and kind and brave, and she was Margaery’s _wife_. Margaery was _supposed_ to tell Sansa her worries. Like the worries about her showing up to the annual Stark family Christmas and things going terribly wrong.

Sansa, however, did not seem alarmed. The redhead glances at her, nodding at the ring on Margaery's finger. "You're a Stark now, remember?"

Six months ago, they had been married in a large ceremony down south. Both girls had wanted a wedding held at Margaery’s home, a place named Highgarden. They had been surrounded by family and flowers the day Sansa had slipped that ring onto her finger, the one that promised that Sansa would love her forever, til death do they part.

Margaery thinks she will love Sansa for so much longer than that, however.

"Stark-Tyrell" Margaery corrects with a grin "As are you. But marrying a Northern daughter doesn't make me one."

Sansa lets out a laugh, the same laugh she had when they first met. Back then, Sansa had been a lot quieter around Margaery, and it took months of effort and love for either girl to open up to each other, and Margaery did not hear Sansa’s laugh as often as she would’ve liked. Now, however, Sansa laughs more often, more freely, and Margaery falls in love with her more and more whenever she hears it.

Sansa turns to Margaery, grasping her hand. "They love you, Margaery. As do-"

But Sansa stops talking, and lets out a scream instead, as she swerves the car away from a flash of golden fur. To Margaery’s knowledge, stags and wolves were the most prominent creatures in the woods near the Stark home, and this creature had certainly looked like a stag. But its fur had been the colour of a lion’s, as if it did not belong in the woods at all.

Margaery does not get a chance to double-check, however, as the car turns, and the stag is out of sight, and she could no longer see _anything_ , but she could feel the skid of the car, feel Sansa’s hand slipping out of her grasp. Margaery closes her eyes, for just a moment, because she wants to pretend that this is a dream.

But when she opens her eyes, although she can see again, all she sees is the tree right in front of the car. She does not even have a chance to glance at Sansa, before there's a crash and a tumble and something hits Margaery in the face, and then they stop but they're upside down, but she doesn't register it. All she thinks is _Sansa, Sansa, **Sansa**._

And so Margaery fumbles for her wife’s hand, but she can't find it, not before the darkness closes in.

* * *

 

When Margaery awakes, it takes awhile for her to realize what's happening. All she notices is several things - the hard bed beneath her, the scent of illness and detergent, the constant sound of beeping, the dry taste in her mouth, the nurse taking tinsel off the window, the constant aching where her heart should be.

And Margaery realizes that she was right – something did go terribly, _terribly_ wrong.

* * *

 

Sansa once told Margaery that her family had a long running joke. The younger girl grew up where it was always cold, where it always felt like winter. And so the Starks would often say that their family words were _Winter is Coming._

Sansa had smiled and said it was stupid, but winter had come now, sending a chill through the air and Margaery's heart.

A storm comes with it, one that means Margaery can't return to her family, and so, even after the funeral, she stays with the Starks.

It is awkward in the house, however. Post the accident, it is the only true memories Margaery begins to have. She’d been in a coma during Christmas. The hospital memories are blurry, and the funeral ones just a sea of black and sobs. They were not memories Margaery had wished to save, and truth be told, neither were the ones she was making in Sansa’s childhood home. The Starks offered her the accommodation, of course, but it's only out of courtesy, Margaery knows. For the only thing that tied them together was Sansa, and Sansa was gone.

Bur there's another reason Margaery feels uncomfortable here, in the house the Starks have dubbed 'Winterfell.' For Margaery has always been good at reading people, and she sees it in their eyes. In Catelyn's, in Robb's, in Jon's, in Arya's, in Bran's, in Rickon's, and even in _Ned's_. She does not blame them for thinking something like that, because the thought process is completely understandable. Some days, Margaery feels the exact same way.

_It should have been you_ , their eyes read, _it should have been you._

* * *

 

Margaery has always been taught to care about appearances, and so even in the company of her dead wife's family, she does not want people to see her upset.

And so she has taken to spending her days in the kitchen, staring out the large window. Ice frosted the glass, but Margaery could still make out the dark woods lying outside. It gave her an opportunity to shed tears away from everyone else, and when she was joined in the kitchen by a Stark, Margaery would begin to scour the woods for a sign of a wolf. There was a reason for this: Looking for the wolves would bring Margaery to recall a story Sansa had told her, years ago. A story about the Stark children and wolves.

When Sansa and her siblings had been younger, they had found a young pack of wolves outside their home. They had never harmed the Starks, despite making frequent visits. So the Stark children had each claimed one for themselves. Lady, Nymeria, Grey Wind, Summer, Shaggydog and Ghost.

They’d been from the same litter, but each was different, in both looks and personality. Margaery had never met the wolves, but Sansa had shown her pictures, had told her stories. Lady was hers, a gentle creature, despite her species and size. Sansa had taught her to be kind and polite, because that was the kind of person Sansa was.

One day, however, Sansa had gone to see Lady, and Lady was dead. A young, sweet, pretty wolf – that no longer had a head.

It was usually then that Sansa would stop speaking, and instead, she would begin to cry. Margaery would intertwine their fingers at this point, and kiss Sansa on the lips.

It is this story Margaery is thinking of one day, when she hears footsteps behind her. She is crying too, however, it’s not about the long gone Lady. It is because she no longer has someone she can intertwine fingers with, someone she could kiss on the lips.

"We had wolves, once. When we were children." Arya's voice tells her, as if Margaery doesn't know already. Sansa’s little sister has the decency to not point out Margaery’s tear stained face, reflected in the window. Either that, or she didn’t notice – although Margaery wasn’t quite sure how that could be.

Margaery nods in reply to Arya’s statement, silently wishing the young Stark would leave her alone. She liked Arya, despite how different she was to Sansa, but she didn’t want to see any of the Starks right now, except the one she couldn’t see. "Sansa named hers Lady."

Arya laughs, but it's a bitter sound. "I always thought that it was a stupid thing to call a wolf. Lady." Margaery thinks she’s wrong, but she remains silent, her eyes focusing on the snow that's blowing on the other side of the window.

Arya's voice returned, much quieter this time. "And Lady died. We found her in the snow one morning - two parts of her. And Sansa cried, because she lost her Lady."

Margaery wonders why Arya is telling her this story, because it should be obvious that Sansa has told her all of these things. They were together six years, and married six months. They had been best friends, then girlfriends, then fiancées, then wives. Of course Margaery knew this story – why wouldn’t she?

Arya, however, is not aware to these thoughts, and instead, Margaery feels the brunette’s eyes on her, as if expecting her to respond. Although Margaery has no response, Arya does not leave. After several beats, Margaery turns to Sansa's only sister, Ned and Catelyn's only surviving daughter.

The words Arya says next are perhaps the second most painful Margaery has ever heard, topped only by _We’re sorry, Mrs, but your wife is dead._

Arya’s voice is sad and distant when she speaks, as if to match her eyes. "And now you've lost yours."

Margaery does not say anything, because she’s not sure what she’s supposed to say to that. She is supposed to have an answer to everything, except, it seems, the things that hurts the most. Arya leaves, as if she is apologetic, which Margaery is grateful for, as she can't quite stop the sob that escapes her.

She turns back around, one hand pressed to her mouth to stifle the sobs, the other pressed against the cold window. She stands like that for what feels like a year, sobbing and shaking. It is only when she is able to breathe again, that Margaery finds her eyes lingering on her hand pressed against the icy kitchen window, her faint tan still lingering.

For a moment, she does not think of Arya’s words, but instead she thinks of the biggest difference between her and Sansa.

Margaery was a summer child, and grew up in a home that smelt like flowers. Her days were spent with her cousins, eating ice blocks that would drip onto their fingers, leaving red and orange and green stains. The pavement would burn the soles of their bare feet, and the sun would tan their thighs, uncovered courtesy of hitched up dresses.

But Sansa was winter's daughter, and she spent her days building castles made out of snow with Rickon, dodging snowballs thrown by Arya. She spent her nights sitting by the fire telling Bran stories, while Catelyn braided her hair. She'd watch Jon and Robb shovel snow every morning, sitting by the large window in her kitchen while Ned attempted to make breakfast.

But winter had come and Sansa was gone, and Margaery, the summer child, was left out in the cold without a place to call home.

* * *

 

Margaery was given Sansa's childhood room to sleep in, a pink carpeted room on the second floor with flower printed wallpaper.

Margaery should love it, but the scent of Sansa is gone, and so she does not. Instead, she only retreats to the room to sleep, hugging one of the tops Sansa had packed for the trip. Her wife’s stuff had survived the accident, even if the owner had not, and so Margaery had claimed all of the clothes. She had let the Starks keep what was left, but it was the clothes that held Sansa’s scent, in a way the room did not.

There was only one part of the room that reminded Margaery of _her_ Sansa. There is a pin board next to the vanity, decorated with ribbons and movie stubs and sketches and photographs.

The photographs contain frozen moments between Sansa and her family, moments between Sansa and their friend Dany, and moments between Sansa and Margaery. They are from their teenage years, and contain cheek kisses and linked arms. But Margaery never looks at these for too long, because it hurts too much.

Instead she focuses on the only photo of a wolf, of Lady. It is a blurry shot, but Margaery makes out the wolf nonetheless. Through the blurry image, she could see Lady stepping out of the woods, one paw in front of the other. It seemed so graceful, so lovely, that she thinks Arya is wrong, because the name Lady seems very fitting.

On the nights she couldn’t sleep, Margaery would take to looking at this photo for hours, as the photo itself could bring back her wife. But it couldn’t, and Margaery knew that. It was stupid to believe so, and so unlike Margaery that she resented herself a little, but she couldn’t help it.

Today, however, Margaery does not even begin to hope. She is not in the kitchen today, but in Sansa’s childhood room, glancing up against the pin board, at the photo of Lady. The wolf that reminded her so much of her wife.

Swallowing, Margaery turns to stare out the window in Sansa's room, with the woods dark beneath the ice blue sky. It has a larger view of the woods than the window in the kitchen, but it is not as detailed, not as stunning. Even the snow isn’t blowing as hard, although that is for another reason entirely.

The storm has let up, and Margaery is free to return to her family. It's not home, but she'll never go home again. Loras is due to pick her up tomorrow. Her bags are packed, partially hidden beneath her large grey coat. They were harder to pack this time, when combined with all of Sansa’s clothing.

Turning away from the window, Margaery swallows. The pin board is still in front of her, and once again, Margaery looks at the photo of Lady, tracing her fingers over it slightly. The ends are yellowed and frayed, but the picture is as clear as it has ever been. It’s a photo Sansa took, she remembers, back when she was about eleven. Sansa had told her this once, when she was sixteen, blushing slightly, because it was not nearly as good as the photos she took for the school newsletter.

But it was a photo Sansa had taken all the same.

Something shifts inside Margaery at this thought, and, without thinking, she grabs her coat and leaves the room.

* * *

 

Margaery's breath made white clouds in the cold air as she walked onwards the woods outside Sansa's childhood home, without any means or purpose. She had just felt as if she needed to go outside, as if she would see Lady, or even Sansa. It was a ridiculous thought, of course, because both were gone, but Margaery wasn’t sure of much these days.

The woods themselves were dark and brooding, but Margaery remembered the story of the Starks and their wolves. She knew not all creatures were like Lady and her siblings, but Margaery wasn’t afraid. She had never been afraid, not really.

_And_ , she told herself, _you_ _are leaving tomorrow. You may never see these woods again._

The woods were tied to Sansa, and Margaery couldn’t go without seeing them for herself. She had been offered once, when she was eighteen, the same day Sansa had told her about the photo of Lady. She had rejected her girlfriend, not because she was afraid of what the woods held, but because she wasn’t a fan of the cold.

Margaery envied that young girl, the one that still had six whole years of Sansa. If she could go back, Margaery decided, she’d accept Sansa’s offer. But she couldn’t go back, she had to go forward, to a life without Sansa.

The idea did not terrify Margaery, but it made her heart ache. She had never expected to be one of these people, who mourned after lovers, but Sansa was something else entirely. Sansa had changed her life, when Margaery had been expecting to change Sansa’s.

A snapping twig pulled Margaery from her thoughts, and as she turned, she laughed at what she saw. A wolf. All of the Stark’s wolves were gone now, but it wouldn't hurt her, Margaery was positive about that. A wolf had its claws, but a rose had its thorns - and neither would use them, Margaery was sure of it.

The wolf crept closer, paws making soft marks in the snow. Margaery is still, watching the creature as it moves. Perhaps Margaery should have been afraid, but she was never afraid, especially not when it came to wolves. Perhaps the wolf should have been afraid, but it didn’t appear to be, even when it came to Tyrell’s. Neither wolf nor rose was scared of the other.

And so, Margaery squats down, as she holds out her hand, almost as a peace offering. The wolf paused momentarily, and a flash of doubt made Margaery wonder if she was wrong, but then the wolf moved again, slowly and surely, towards Margaery’s outstretched hand.

It's then that Margaery realizes her wolf was young, with thick auburn fur. The colour was familiar to the brunette, as it was the same colour that Margaery had woken up to every morning for the past four years. It was the colour that did not belong in the fur of a wolf, but in the hair of a lovely girl. And suddenly, Margaery feels a tug on her heartstrings.

Margaery shudders, but the wolf creeps closer still, sniffing Margaery's hand before it cranes it's head up to look at her with vivid blue eyes, taking another step closer. The eyes were the same eyes Margaery had been looking into for six years, eyes that belonged to the lovely girl with the auburn hair.

Margaery freezes, as the wolf stops right in front of her. Its head still turned up, the wolf pushes its mouth behind Margaery's curtain of hair. She feels goose bumps prick up underneath her coat, although Margaery is anything but cold. She can feel the heat radiating from the creature, hear its breath in her ear. She feels the wolf's wet nose presses against her cheek, and she feels her own breath catch in her throat.

And then, all too soon, the wolf is gone, a spark of auburn in the dark woods, leaving soft paw shaped marks on the snow. It is not going to return, and Margaery knows this, but, she realizes, after tomorrow, neither will she.

Kneeling in the wet snow, brown hair flapping in the wind, with the feel of the wolf’s nose against her cheek fresh in her mind, Margaery realizes something.

The wolf smelt faintly of roses.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm...I'm not sure how I feel about this. Some parts I adore, whilst others I am not a fan of. But this has been a work in progress for a months, and I finally got the inspiration to finish it, so here we are.  
> I find Margaery an incredibly hard character to write for, because she is so interesting and complex. And as we've never had POV chapters for her, I've always had trouble working out what goes on in that mind of hers. Especially in a scenario like this, when she is genuinely in mourning. So, I do apologize for any OOC-ness.  
> As per usual, this is for Lucy, because I wouldn't be writing Sansa/Margaery if it weren't for her.  
> xx ladystark


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